


Let The Storm Rage On

by gemjam



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cabin Fic, Cold, M/M, Rain, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 05:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17217476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/pseuds/gemjam
Summary: When they get caught in a storm, Peter finds that it's his responsibility to get Stiles warm and dry again.





	Let The Storm Rage On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsRidcully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsRidcully/gifts).



> Ficlet fill for _MrsRidcully_ who wanted _caught in the rain and sharing a bed._

The rain is coming down in sheets, the trees not offering any cover as they trudge on through the forest. They lost light half an hour ago and Stiles is stumbling every other step in the undergrowth. They’re never going to find the Druid site like this, but they’re too far into the wilderness to turn around now in this storm. They need to find shelter.

Peter lifts his head, wolf eyes glowing in the darkness as he looks around. Moonlight glints off something to their left. “This way,” he calls to Stiles, catching his arm as the place is floodlit by lightening, the thunder cracking loud only a second later.

Stiles doesn’t say anything, just lets himself be redirected, jacket pulled tight around him as he dips his head against the rain. One of them should probably have checked the weather report. It’s too late for that now.

Five minutes later they’re standing outside an abandoned cabin. It looks abandoned at least. Everything is dark and the place has definitely seen better days. Peter puts his ear against the door and listens, but it’s hard to focus on anything with the storm raging around them. He shrugs, barging the door open, the lock snapping easily under his strength. He steps inside, checking the place out. It smells stale and musty but at least it’s dry.

They walk inside, dripping all over the wooden floorboards, leaving water droplets across the dusty floor. No one has been here in a long time. Peter tries the lights but there’s no electricity. He turns back to Stiles who’s just standing by the open door, soaked and shivering. Peter goes back over, shutting the broken door and wedging it shut with a chair against the wind. He looks at Stiles. Vulnerable, human Stiles.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” he says. “I’ll get a fire started.”

He goes over to the grate, checking the buckets and boxes that should hold supplies, but there’s nothing. He searches the place, opens every cupboard and closet. There’s not even any matches, let alone wood or firelighters. He gives a huff and unlocks the back door, going outside. There’s an axe, a shelter for chopped wood, but it’s all gone. He squeezes his eyes shut in frustration before looking out over the forest. Everything is soaked. Nothing out there is going to burn tonight.

When he gets back inside, Stiles is stood exactly where he left him, frozen in place, dripping and shivering and probably losing body temperature fast. Peter steps up to him. Stiles doesn’t react.

“Stiles?”

He blinks, his eyes lifting up to look at Peter. His lips are going blue.

“You need to get out of those clothes,” Peter says.

Stiles moves, a jagged little nod as he lifts his hands, trying to pull off his jacket. He can’t get a grip, his hands shaking and numb looking. Peter is starting to get a very bad feeling. He reaches forward, pulling the jacket off a little too roughly, followed by the hoodie. These things are hurting him. Peter needs to get rid of them.

He lifts up Stiles’ T-shirt and Stiles doesn’t stop him. He stands there, damp and half-naked and pale and shivery, his arms coming up to wrap around himself. He looks so frail that Peter’s tempted to think he’s already dead. How did humans become the dominant species when a bit of rain can kill them?

“I’m going to find something warm for you to put on,” Peter says, leaving him to finish the rest himself, or just stand there and get hypothermia.

He goes through to the bedroom, going through drawers and pulling things out. He doesn’t know who lived here but at least they were practical. He finds thermal base layers, long underwear and a long sleeved top, as well as some wool socks and a chunky, cable knit sweater. It’s all a little big for Stiles’ skinny frame, but it will do.

He takes it back out to find Stiles sat on the couch, naked, his knees pulled up to his chest. He’s still shivering, his teeth chattering, his whole body looking like it’s convulsing painfully. Peter throws the clothes down next to him.

“Put these on.”

Stiles looks up at him with those pathetic eyes, wide and unblinking and full of unshed tears. Peter gives a huff, grabbing the underwear.

“I am using this against you forever.”

Stiles unfolds his legs stiffly, Peter getting his feet into the pants, nearly flinching away at how cold they are. He pulls them up, looking pointedly away as Stiles lifts his hips, Peter tugging them higher and settling them on his waist. He grabs the shirt, pulling it roughly over Stiles’ head and yanking the sleeves down his arms. He sits on the floor in front of him then, taking a little more care as he gets his feet into the thick socks, making sure they’re sitting right, giving each one a squeeze once he’s done as though he can share some of his warmth with the simple act, or maybe inspire Stiles’ body to make some of its own.

He moves forward, taking the sweater and carefully pulling it over his head, guiding his arms through, straightening out the sleeves of the thermal shirt so that it doesn’t get all bunched up at his elbows or under his arms. Peter hates when that happens. The sweater is too big, drowning Stiles within in, making him look so small and cute. Objectively speaking. Peter arranges it on him, adjusting it this way and that before he stops himself, realising that Stiles is watching him with something like curiosity.

“Okay,” Peter says, getting to his feet. “You should get in the bed. Warm up.”

Stiles nods his head. “Thanks.”

Peter pulls him to his feet without even having to think about it. He walks with him through to the bedroom, pulling the blankets back from the bed so that he can climb inside. They’re thick and heavy, they’ll keep him warm. He’ll be fine. Peter throws them over him as soon as he’s settled, forcing himself to step away. He’s fine. And if he dies, it’s not really Peter’s fault. Stiles was the one who wanted to come out here and find the Druid site.

It’s only when he turns around that he realises that he’s still soaking wet. It’s not dangerous to him like it is Stiles, but it’s not pleasant either. He looks through the drawers, pulling out some dry things that don’t entirely smell clean to his nose, but it’s just age and neglect rather than filth. He hopes. He tries not to sneer too much as he pulls them on.

Gathering up his wet clothes, he goes through to the living room and grabs Stiles’ as well. He saw a drying rack in one of the closets earlier when he was looking for firewood. He pulls it out and lays their clothes on it. Hopefully they’ll be dry by morning and they can finish what they started. Until the weather changes, he guesses they’re stuck here.

“Peter?”

Peter goes over to the bedroom doorway. “What?”

“I’m cold,” Stiles says, lifting his head up to look at him.

“Yeah, that’s why you’re in the bed,” Peter agrees.

“Can you come keep me warm?” Stiles asks. “I’m really cold.”

Peter gives a put-upon sigh, but he moves forward. “Why should I share my precious body heat with you?”

“Because you’re a werewolf and you have an infinite amount of it,” Stiles says. “Please.”

Peter huffs, climbing onto the bed and pressing himself against Stiles’ body through the blankets, throwing an arm over him. Stiles shuffles unhappily against him.

“I can’t feel your warmth through the blankets.”

Peter lifts his head, giving him an incredulous look. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Stiles’ body is still stiff with cold though, his skin pale and his lips still tinged with blue. If he dies, Peter will literally never hear the end of it. He climbs beneath the blankets, pulling Stiles to his chest and holding him tight. Stiles’ hands are like ice where they grab at him to get closer, even through Peter’s clothes. He’s shivery and chilled and Peter instinctively holds him tighter, letting Stiles nuzzle into his neck to find warmth. His breath, at least, is still hot. Peter wraps the blankets more firmly around them to trap the heat, rubbing up and down Stiles’ back.

He doesn’t really notice it happen at first, so relaxed that he’s starting to drift off to sleep, when he registers Stiles’ lips against his neck. They’re moving in a way that could be shivers, or could be the mouthed words of sleep talking, but it’s not. It’s a deliberate drag that makes Peter feel warm all over in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature.

He opens his eyes, shifting back to look at Stiles. His eyes are bright, his lips pink and healthy now. Peter has to make sure though. He leans in, brushing his own mouth against Stiles’, the only chill the one that runs down Peter’s spine at how good it feels.


End file.
